Thank Me Later
by TheWildHeffernan
Summary: Sally wasn't a fan of Sherlock, obviously. However, for all the times she'd prayed for him to leave them all alone, she didn't want it to end like this...


**Disclaimer: Yeah, I own it. That's why I'm writing lame fanfiction!**

Sally Donovan heard the shot echo through the alley two doors down, and a shriek. Someone ran, a door slammed, and tires squealed, almost painful against the silent wetness of the night. She gasped, making a sparkling cloud in the cold November air. Her heels clattered on the rain-slick bricks as she ran towards the alley. She wasn't wearing clothes suited to a chase. Her tights and skirt were damp, and Andy's jacket hung past her hands. This was all the freak's fault. It was him who'd come running in to the scene of the murder, it was he who'd led them on this spontaneous hunt through the streets, and it probably his fault that the four of them, she, Lestrade, Dr. Watson, and Sherlock, had been separated in this maze of London back ways. It was his fault that she was cold and miserable and tired, without a clue where she was and apparently out of hearing distance with all her colleagues. I was her fault she'd tripped while running and broken her phone. Everything was his fault, and now someone was hurt, and it was probably his fault. Lestrade was bleeding out on the sidewalk, she was sure of it. Or poor, stupid Dr. Watson. Or some other lowly officer who'd joined the chase, not knowing the danger that lay ahead.

She reached the alley and huffed a couple times to catch her breath before running in. Sherlock was standing there, leaning against the wall. For about half a second, she entertained a wild thought that he'd finally killed someone, but her horror evaporated when he sank to the ground and moaned, biting his lip and holding his side. Donovan ran the last couple yards and crouched down. He looked at her with those creepy eyes of his and nodded stiffly.

"Sally." She didn't say anything, just took off his scarf and pressed it against the wound in his abdomen. He moved his hands, and she pressed down, trying to stop the stream of dark red gathering at her feet. That was a lot of blood. Sherlock looked paler then usual, and his scared eyes made him look younger, and infinitely more vulnerable. Donovan didn't like it. She thought back to the basic training she'd received for medical emergencies. Stop the bleeding… she was trying. CPR… not unless she had to, and certainly not yet. Keep victim warm. She took one hand off the soaked scarf and pulled his ridiculous coat closed, noting he was shivering. Sherlock slid to the side a bit, and his eyes started to shut.

"Sherlock! Freak! Look at me!" She slapped him lightly. He seemed to pull together his strength to give him a withering glare.

"Why, sergeant, if you were me, would you want to be stuck staring at you while injured? Let me bleed in peace." He was alert enough, which was good. Now the ambulance… Donovan cursed at her mangled mePhone, tossing it to the side.

"Sherlock, I need your mobile."

"Left pocket." She grabbed it, dialing Lestrade. The line didn't have time for a full ring before Lestrade picked up.

"Sherlock? Where the hell are you?"

"It's me, Donovan. I need an ambulance, now."

"What happened?"

"Sherlock got himself shot."

"Oh, god. How is he?"

"Alive. Breathing. Get the ambulance!"

"Where are you?"

Donovan found a street sign.

"Winchester Ave., NE1."

There was a pause, with Lestrade yelling in the back round.

"Ten minutes." Sherlock suddenly coughed violently, and Donovan recoiled from the blood dribbling down his chin. She used the end of the scarf to wipe it away, careful not to let him see. Hell, he probably noticed. He was Sherlock, after all.

"I don't know if we have ten minutes."

"They're out, Donovan. They'll be there soon."

Lestrade hung up. Donovan felt the blood running through her fingers, realizing the scarf was done. She groaned inwardly, shrugging out of Andy's over-large coat. He'd understand, wouldn't he? She bundled it up and pressed it against his side.

"This must be enormously gratifying for you." Donovan rolled her eyes.

"You're the one who doesn't feel empathy." Sherlock looked confused. "You're annoying, arrogant, and selfish. You humiliate good people, and make them thank you for it later. You act like an innocent dying is the universe's Christmas present to you. I've wanted to wipe that grin off your face for six years."

"But?"

"But I never wanted to find you shot in a dark alley." Sherlock nodded like he was trying to look like he understood. He started to slide down the wall again, and Donovan shook him.

"Stay up, you idiot."

"Boring…" he mumbled.

"What's the date?"

"7th November."

"October."

"That's what I said."

"The Prime minister is…"

"I don't know… who cares?"

She had to keep him talking. What did he talk about? Donovan sighed. She'd have to feed his vanity. Oh, shit. She leaned over towards his ear.

"Freak, you with me? Who was it?" Sherlock didn't look up.

"Louise Wallace. The cousin."

"She wasn't even a suspect! How did you know?"

"Leave me alone."

"You're just making this up, you sod." Silence. "Nobody's going to believe you, you little weirdo. You're letting everyone down, that's all you ever do, freak. Hey, freak! Freak!"

Sherlock opened his eyes a crack and glared at her venomously.

"Spaghetti. Oak. Doctor Who. Grasshopper. Honda. Light bulbs. Newspapers folded at twenty-three degrees. Seltzer. Lab, not Labrador. Oysters. Oh, why? Why the Oysters?" He leaned against her and coughed again. "They, of course have natural predators. I digress." He started talking even faster. "Cardboard. Rust stains. I hate oysters. Hate them. They taste terrible, they're an invasive species, they create pearls, and pearls are stolen, and idiots like you don't know how to deal with it. Some people eat them, I suppose. Again, irrelevant. It was Louise. The cousin. Tell Lestrade for me, please."

Donovan wasn't sure if that was a delirious rant or an explanation. Coming from Sherlock, they made about the same amount of sense. Either way, he seemed to be done. He was quiet, aside from his fluttery breathing. He was leaning against her, eyes closed, and so white he almost glowed in the dark. The jacket in her hands wasn't soaking through; the bleeding was stopping. She tapped him in the face, and he moaned softly. Something wet was dripping down the side of his face. He was crying, pain-crying. How people cry when they're hurt, bad, and they just start to leak. Donovan wiped away the tears as gently as possible, and rubbed his shoulder the way her mother used to do when she was upset.

"Shhh, you'll be fine. Trust me, if you don't make a full recovery, John will have me hung. And Lestrade would go along with it, to." Some part of her mind was shocked. She didn't like this man one bit. She would tell anyone who asked that she hated him, and list the reasons why. Why was she comforting him? Why was she getting his blood all over her, and her boyfriend's jacket, and why did she want him to be okay? She didn't know… she was capable of putting her professional regard aside professionally.

She didn't like seeing people hurt, or wronged. That was why she was a cop, for Christ's sake. That was also why she hated Sherlock.

She didn't like the silence. She was straining to hear the sirens, but they weren't coming. They should be here soon. They'd better be there soon.

The breathing was getting more labored. Shit. Donovan put her hand on his chest and patted it.

"Okay, breath. With me. In, and out, good, not too deep. That's it." Sherlock sighed, and started to breath slowly with her. Donovan heard a siren in the distance. She lay Sherlock down on the ground and ran to the mouth of the alleyway, waving her arms and shouting.

"Over here! Come on…" The ambulance screeched to a halt, and John and Lestrade ran past her without a glance.

The ambulance drove away. Anderson stood next to Sally, awkwardly patting her on the back. He rolled his eyes when he thought she wasn't looking. Sally handed him his blood-soaked coat and walked away upon hearing him groan. At the sidewalk, she turned around and Jerk. She smiled to herself. How had she never noticed before?

She realized she was still holding Sherlock's phone. She dialed Lestrade, and waited for the beep.

"Louise Wallace. Thank me later."

She hung up.

She found a bus stop and sat down to wait.

They could all thank her later.

**AN: This was a little sappy, and I don't pretend to have any personal experience with stuff like this, but I hoped you liked it!**

**:)-( My am-bastard says: Reviews are to Heffernans as wounded antelopes are to starving lions. Feed the animals!**


End file.
